Sometime around the age of four I became obsessed with ballerinas. I don’t know if it was the tutu or the toe shoes or the reenacted fairy tales but for whatever reason, I was intrigued. The only thing I wanted more than a career in the ballet was chocolate. Which is why on a visit to find a child-sized tutu at the local department store, when I saw a group of happy children clutching chocolate bars after standing in line to meet Santa, I wanted in.

Let me explain, there were no sweets in the house growing up. Well, that’s not entirely true. Scour the cupboard hard enough and you’d find two snacks, diet licorice nibs and some sort of healthful raisin cookie. Think Fig Newton’s very ugly step sister. Pickings were slim is what I’m saying. So when my child-mind got wind of the holy grail of cocoa–a Hershey’s bar–I knew I had to have one at all costs. Who cared if I went to temple on Yom Kippur and my great-grandmother carried herring in her purse on the boat over. This was chocolate. This was serious. My parents and I stood in line for what seemed like hours until finally Mount Kringle sat before me. I scrambled up on the man’s lap.

“What would you like for Xmas little girl?” the kindly fellow asked.

But all that waiting had caused the dark seeds of conscience to take root in my four-year-old brain. I sighed and shook my head. “I can’t have anything cause I’m Jewish,” I confessed.

“Well then, what would you like for Hanukkah?” he said.

What was this? A Unitarian Santa? My lucky day! I craned my neck, pointed over his shoulder, declaring loud enough for my parents to hear, “I would like that tutu, the one over there.” He placed the chocolate in my enthusiastic palm and I was on my way.

I wolfed the Hershey’s down immediately, of course. Poor impulse control, you see. As for the tutu, turned out it was encrusted with silver sequins that itched like a hair shirt, and I could only wear it once. Clearly some higher power was not amused at my willingness to abandon the Semites for a bar of chocolate.

I’m telling you this silly tale to talk about the spontaneous nature of kids, and how it effects me as a writer. Like the two girls I watched walk down third avenue once. One wanted to touch everything, the smooth metal railing in front of a restaurant, the tiny holes in the green painted post of a No Parking sign, something sparkly embedded in the sidewalk, every inch of the street expanded her curiosity. I’m sure her mother counted the seconds before she could whip out the Purel. Meanwhile, the other little girl didn’t walk, she wiggled and skipped down the road dancing to a staccato beat of her own making. That freedom to explore and not feel self-conscious came to them naturally, life had not interfered with it yet. I tried to remind myself that day, as I often do, to pay attention to the world in the same way as those girls, to live and write from a place that still retains spontaneity and a willingness to try something new.

We live in challenging times. Our news is filled with hypocrisy and violence, the bills to pay are large, and every demagogue with a microphone and a set of advertisers is preaching at us about the merits of his or her political position. What do you do in the midst of all that noise to hang on to your spark, to see magenta when it might be easier to get consumed by beige? Do you blow bubbles, do you play the ukulele, do you read a good book? Tell me about it. And the next time a kid skips by, watch, listen, learn, and remember to feed your child-mind. Chocolate I find is a particularly welcome snack for just this kind of occasion.

11 Responses to Sensitive Skin, One Reason I’m Not A Prima Ballerina

For me it’s ice cream. My mother was a health nut too and we had the organic cardboard version of everything. Cheetos? No- we got Health Valley Puffed Corn Snack. Her answer to “Can I have a cookie?” was “I’m sure there’s a granola bar that will meet your needs.” But the woman loved her ice cream. And it was Haagen-Dazs too. And to this day, no matter how healthy I’m trying to be, I eat ice cream almost every day. And I don’t like it in the pint. I like going to an ice cream shop, buying a cup, and walking down the street while I eat it. And I like to eat it as slowly possible. It is probably the only time I shed the speed walking Manhattanite in me and stroll like I have no where else to be.

Note to self, call mom ask her why she never mentioned Ilana and I were separated at birth. 74% bittersweet chocolate is a serious obsession, weakness, joy, of mine. Slightly bitter, slightly sweet, I’m like a junkie for the stuff. But before I gave up everything, COFEE HEATH BAR CRUNCH Ben & Jerry’s, man. That was the stuff.

I had no idea you were a chocoholic! For years I could have been supplying you with quality European goods at family friendly prices (free).

But alas, that ship as sailed—I don’t go there anymore!. Right now, about the only exotic thing I could get you is a Subway cookie from San Juan, or perhaps something from salad bar at Frisch’s Big Boy in Louisville?

You really missed out. I used get these small round tins of bittersweet chocolate wedges infused with caffeine. A favorite of my car mechanic. Potent stuff. German you know. Used to get it at the Chocolate museum. http://www.chocolatemuseum-cologne.com/

How odd, when I woke up this morning the first thought in my head was “gosh I wish I had some romaine from Frisch’s Big Boy salad bar…”

There’s a CHOCOLATE MUSEUM somewhere on this globe and I have not been made privy to it? This situation must be rectified. I’m hitching to Cologne immediately with a sign that reads: Will work for 78% single origin cacao.
-MP

Another gem from Madame P, with a beautiful pearl of wisdom lying inside the shell of her wry humour. How do we ‘see magenta when it might be easier to get consumed by beige?’ (love that) Like the two girls, we play, of course … & from within spontaneous play creativity is born. We skip, we wiggle, we explore and we dance, allowing our imaginations to catch fire & light up a whole new vista of possibilities that, otherwise, would never have surfaced within our adult ego state.

I sniggered & chuckled my way through the whole of your post, Heidi … just knowing there would be a pearl lying waiting for me at some point.

OK! Chocolate! My name is Peter Wilkin & I’m a chocoholic! And I feed my habit on a very regular basis courtesy of this man: http://www.williescacao.com/

As ever, thank you for yet another wonderfully absorbing & entertaining small story.

Thanks as always, Peter. I blame Willy Wonka really, for this affliction of ours. Factory filled with edible bits and dancing Oompa Loompas, it was bound to have its effect on my pliable young conscious. 🙂 That website looks incredible. I am at this very moment sitting next to half an exquisite dark mayan chocolate bar, but not for long, not for long.

Aw, thanks for reading it again. I thought it was worth recycling for the holiday season as well. As for your post, I’m sure, as always, you will come up with something more clever than I can imagine. 🙂

Virgo Disclaimer: It's not my fault I was born a Virgo. My parents had sex in December, what was I to do about it? I'm a psychotic perfectionist so sue me. Or actually, don't. The point I'm trying to make here is in the likely event that there are missspellings, and grammatical errors, forgive me and keep reading anyway. If I let my Virgo nature get the better of me and obsess over these things, I may never leave the house. And people are expecting me for lunch.